Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [335]
They were waiting to hear him: Moriz, Tobie, Diniz. Behind them, unseen, were the shadows of the others he had offended: John and Gregorio, and the ghost of young Robin. Gelis, he had reason to know, had forgiven him. Julius had never minded what he had done, nor had Astorre and Thomas. From some houri-laden cloud, Astorre would be watching him irascibly. Get on with it. Tell them.
Nicholas said, ‘I can’t help you. I suggest you wind down the Bank, and then close it.’
He could feel the shock, then the anger. Tobie said, ‘You won’t help.’
Nicholas said, ‘No one can help. Without Astorre, the army is nothing, and what is left is too small to be viable. Offer it to John, but he would be wasted. As for the Bank, only you know what your reserves are, and how much you will see of the money you have already working for you. I suspect it isn’t enough to weather what is coming.’
He didn’t spell it out, although he could. He knew enough about business to be sure. Burgundy, the vital balance between France and the German Empire, had gone. He thought of the dazzling riches and power of Duke Philip; of the burning zeal of the Vow of the Pheasant; the hopes of Pope Pius, valiantly assembling his fleet to stop the advance of the Turk; the hopes, even, of Ludovico da Bologna. All ended in a block of ice in a ditch, during a misconceived, squalid fight over boundaries.
Diniz said, ‘Can nothing be done?’ It was a brave admission. Recently, Diniz, too, had learned to face truths.
Nicholas said, ‘You can return to your roots. Dyes may be scarce, and expensive, but you have better sources than anyone. If a new route is found, employ Crackbene. There will always be a place for a good, small money-broker trusted by merchants. You may have to leave Bruges for Antwerp, but you have Jooris, and the goodwill of Veere and of the new Duchess’s advisers, so long as they last.’ He paused, and said, ‘You don’t need me. You don’t even need Gelis, although you may want her, and she may want to stay.’
Tobie said, ‘You remember the business as it was. You and Julius. You could guide them.’
‘Them?’ Nicholas said.
‘What are you going to do?’ Tobie said.
‘Deal with David de Salmeton. At the moment, if you want me, I’ll do what I can. You can’t take any decision without a proper assessment. Then the old business will have to be dismantled and the new one constructed. I don’t want a fee, but perhaps I can help. After that, it depends partly on you.’
‘You won’t join us. Would you compete with us?’ Moriz said.
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t join you,’ Nicholas said. ‘Just that there would be no room for me. And yes, I have come to the point where I should want a business, perhaps, of my own. I don’t know where. I don’t know yet what is going to happen: no one does. But I do promise it will never compete with you, whatever it is. It may even be able to help you.’
‘And Gelis?’ Tobie said.
‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Nicholas said. ‘Bring her in and put it before her. She owes it to you, as I do, to tell you where she stands.’
‘Without speaking to her first?’ Tobie said.
And Nicholas said, ‘She doesn’t need me to help her reach a decision.’
AS CONSERVATOR OF SCOTS Privileges in Bruges, Andro Wodman spent all his time, these days, at harassed meetings; or waiting to see people who, exhausted, afraid, overworked, did not want to be seen. Adorne, with terrifying concerns of his own, yet wielded his considerable authority to support him. Through days infested with rumour, scraps of genuine news sometimes permeated, and were shared.
That evening, unannounced, the burly figure of Wodman broke into the orderly courtyard of the Hôtel Jerusalem, and asked to see Adorne and his niece. A good deal later, he made his way between lamplit houses and over bridges to Spangnaerts Street. At the Hof Charetty-Niccolò, on being told that M. de Fleury and his wife were both at a meeting, he pushed past the protesting manservant, found the room, and walked in on them all. Diniz Vasquez and the doctor jumped to their feet. The priest, Moriz, gazed at him, frowning. Nicholas de Fleury,